


Like Yesterday's News

by the_void_fox



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Abandonment, Angst, Cats, Crutchie the Snark Monster, Double Life, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Friends as Family, Gen, Gift Giving, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jewish Character, Jumping over Rooftops, LETS GO LESBIANS LETS GO, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Medda is Everyone's Mother, Mental Health Issues, Physical Abuse, Pining David Jacobs, Post-Canon, Redemption, Self-Harm, Self-Worth Issues, Triggers, it is implied but we all know it, mute character, the girls are here!, well maybe who knows
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2018-11-30 08:01:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11459400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_void_fox/pseuds/the_void_fox
Summary: Sometimes he just has to get out.Away from the uncle who drinks and the brother who rages, the oppressive air of the little room and its threadbare mattress. So he exchanges the linen shirt and smartly ironed pants for rough wool and charcoal smudges, messing his neatly-combed hair and hiding his lifeless eyes under the shade of a newsboy’s cap.And every afternoon, after selling the few papers he slips from the stacks, he climbs to the rooftops of New York and breathes, standing on the edge between street and sky. The bell rings and he runs home, back to his cage in disguise, suffering through the harsh voices and the hateful words he has to spit – waiting desperately for his next taste of freedom.(Or, Morris Delancey and the newsie known only as Mike have always been one and the same.)





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I would just like to say that this is mostly Mike Faist's fault, with what he said in his Meet the Newsies video and the fact that he is incapable of playing one-dimensional characters. It is also partly my friend Hannah's fault for encouraging me, which is always a bad idea.
> 
> Just kidding, I'm really looking forward to this one. Redemption arcs are my jam.
> 
> Also, I've set up an askblog for the characters in this universe, which can be found on Tumblr at ask-yesterdays-newsies. Please consider following, and please read the mod post for a little explanation before dropping any asks. Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we are introduced to a rather lost and uncertain boy in need of a more stable life.

New York, one of the greatest cities of the 1890s, is a busy place even in the afternoon, the carriages and strolling tourists turning thoroughfares to bustling, noisy crowds. Pickpockets and street performers abound – and later, of course, there will be newsboys everywhere, competing for turf and coin as they race to sell the evening papers.

 

Lower Manhattan may not be the most glamorous area of the city, compared to the shining lights and grand façades of Midtown and the theatre district, but it’s home to thousands and thousands of immigrants, workers, sailors and other citizens of the world’s fastest-growing population. The area boasts several impressive buildings of its own, including prominent newspapers such as the World, run by Joseph Pulitzer himself, and the birthplace of the now locally-famous Children’s Crusade.

It has its strange sights too, but not all of them are famous, and some can only be spotted if you pay close attention – and look somewhere besides the ground…

 

* * *

 

Feet pound over tiles, the row of townhouses no obstacle for a particularly light-footed boy. Birds fly past as he leaps over chimneys, the wind whipping at his face and stinging his eyes. He slows at the edge of the roof, twisting to grab the fire ladder and sliding to the ground. He hits earth without breaking rhythm as he twists and rolls, scooping his hat off the ground and heading for home.

 

His feet lead him to the side of a well-known distribution yard, the towering edifice of the paper’s front building casting its shadow. Scaling the drainpipe, he makes his way along the old scaffolding until he reaches the tiny attic window. He worms his way inside, silently closing the sash and pulling the curtain across to envelop the pitiful room in darkness.

 

There’s shouting downstairs, and his heart sinks. His uncle has been drinking again, no doubt, and his brother does not sound pleased. Trying to make as little noise as possible, he quickly changes into his smarter set of clothes, scrubbing the dirt from his face with practiced ease and carefully hiding his grey cap beneath the mattress. He dips his hands in the rusty sink and slicks his brown hair back, removing a stray bird feather, which he places gently on the windowsill. After standing and breathing for several long seconds, he opens the heavy wooden door a crack, one blue eye surveying the musty staircase. He normally wouldn’t go downstairs when his brother is in one of his rages, but his stomach is twisting pitifully, reminding him of the last time he ate. The risk is worth it to keep from fainting at evening distribution, he tells himself, and slips silently out of the room. There’s a clear path to the bushel of apples, and he snags two, not enough to be missed but enough to quench both his hunger and thirst just a little.

 

A crash from the next room has him flying back up the stairs, and he shuts the door, pushing his chair in front of it in a fruitless attempt to feel safe. He sits against the headboard of the bed and slowly devours the two apples, reminding himself to make them last as long as possible as he gnaws away every last scrap of edible flesh and pushes the cores into the rat burrow in the corner. The little ones will have a feast tonight – it’s the least he can do when they don’t come out to chew his clothes like the mice used to.

 

A loud shout from downstairs, his brother calling his name, and his good day ends here.

 

* * *

 

‘How’s that headline lookin’, Jack? Any good?’

 

‘Scandal in the ranks of the bore-jaw-see, Race!’ Jack shouts back, grinning at the prospect of a good evening sell. ‘Some duchess or other caught with a feller she weren’t wed to!’

‘Oh, tut-tut! Too bad for ‘er!’

‘Good fer us, though,’ Specs whistles as the newsies flock to the gates of the World distribution yard. ‘Folk’ll flock to gossip like cats t’ a barrel of old fish.’ Beside him, Les laughs as he trots ahead of his brother, clambering onto the heavy iron and smiling as Davey straightens his hat.

 

The Delanceys stride into view – well, Oscar strides, Morris has more of a slink despite his beanpole stature – and the newsies smirk wickedly in response to Oscar’s angry glare, unconcerned with his threats after their recent victory. The gate is unlocked, and the boys stream into the yard, forming a ragtag line as Wiesel and his men stack the last of the papers. ‘Papes for the newsies! Come and get your papes, quick smart!’

 

Jack waits his turn with Crutchie, still a little unwilling to let the kid out of his sight. He glances around as they move up the line, taking in the old cart and the boxes where they fought. Not much has changed around here, but that’s just fine with him.

 

A shadow falls across his face and he looks up to the balcony, where the younger Delancey brother is leaning on the rail, staring out at nothing from under the brim of his hat. Jack frowns, suspicious at the unusual behaviour. While Oscar had been bitingly vicious, barely holding back his anger each time they walked up to the gate, Morris hadn’t said a single word to any of the newsies since the strike. It set Jack on edge and he found himself always ready for a fight.

 

Crutchie nudges him, and they collect their papers, irritation forgotten as they hit the streets in the evening light, shouting their goldmine of a header for all to hear.

 

‘Extry, extry! Honeymoon scandal in the royal box, read all about it! Jilted duke preparin’ for duel of honour!’

 

* * *

 

There’s a new bruise to hide from the newsies, another venomous glare to shoot in someone’s direction before he lapses into cold, silent avoidance, another night where he curls up under his tattered blanket and waits for rest.

 

He remembers his mother, her gentle hands helping him reach the piano keys, her softly accented voice calling him her “ _petit maestro”_ , her warm embrace as his six-year-old self came crying to her with grazed knees and a bumped head after taking a tumble on the street. But his mother is long gone, the terrible fever having stolen her away and left her sons to the care of her husband’s alcoholic uncle, their father wanting nothing to do with them as the memories clustered painful and sad. And as the elder grew into a vicious, twisted creature, never happy without someone to torment, the younger withdrew into a shell, finding the best ways to make himself invisible from his brother’s anger.

 

His side aches, and he rolls gingerly over to relieve it, wincing as the action brings tears to his eyes – and then he can’t stop.

 

And like the night before, trapped in a tiny attic room with the rats and the biting chill and the threat of his brother downstairs, Morris Delancey softly cries himself to sleep.

 

Maybe tomorrow will be better.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are cats, and Racetrack Higgins.

**_Mrrp?_ **

 

Morris blinks awake as a raspy tongue licks at his nose, meeting a pair of bright green eyes and sighing, pushing the offender off his chest and sitting up. ‘Ginger, how on god’s green earth d’you even get in ‘ere? Y’know if Oscar or Wiesel catch ya, they’ll dump ya in the river.’

 

The big orange cat just cocks his head and nudges the boy’s hand, and Morris ruffles the one remaining ear, scooping Ginger into his arms and listening to the comforting rumble as he tangles his fingers in the coarse fur. ‘” _Merci, mon cher minou,_ ” as Mama would say. Da’d prob’ly just scratch behind yer ear and prod you out the door,’ he murmurs, getting stiffly to his feet and listening at the keyhole. All quiet. He deposits the cat on the windowsill and pulls on a shirt, taking his hat from the chair. ‘Ginger, I gots to go, it’s nearly bell. You get outta here for now.’

 

Morris closes the door behind him and tiptoes down the stairs, past his snoozing brother and out into the yard, where the early papers have been stacked. Slipping a coin into the strongbox he surreptitiously gathers up a bundle and bags it before creeping back upstairs, hurriedly stowing the bag behind a helpful box as the bell rings. There is a thud from the living room as Oscar falls out of his chair, and Morris allows himself a raised eyebrow before returning to his mask of indifference. He chews a crust of bread and plans today’s route, hearing the tell-tale sound of the ladder as the signwriter prepares for the daily headline announcement.

 

Oscar claps him on the shoulder, steering him towards the door, and he tries to hide his flinch. _Half an hour. Just half an hour and you can go._ His thoughts drift as the newsies arrive, collecting their papers, and considers the angle for the morning sell. The headline is just as good as yesterday’s, short and bloody with a nice clear picture.

 

* * *

 

Race doesn’t actually smoke the cigar that’s usually between his teeth. They’re expensive, it’s more of a style choice than a life choice, and he doesn’t care if the others are confused. He likes to think it gives him a rakish air, and he grins as he strolls down the boulevard, hawking the morning paper. It’s early yet, he can afford to take it easy for a few more minutes.

 

He stops on the next street corner to take in the view of the Hudson, and quirks an eyebrow as he sees a fellow paperboy already in position. ‘Mornin’, Mike. Which technique you tryin’ today?’

 

The most recent addition to the Manhattan newsies shrugs one thin shoulder, fanning out three papers in his hands and surveying the busy thoroughfare. ‘Dunno yet,’ he murmurs, and Race frowns. ‘That’s a touch outta style fer you. I seen you sell wid a new angle just about every other day since you moved to Manhattan turf. Loud night at home keepin’ you awake or somethin’?’

 

The twist of the boy’s mouth says more than he realises, and Race notes the gaunt look of his cheeks, the exhausted trembling of his hands. He knows the signs of a Bad Home all too well, and it’s clear Mike has not settled in to the newsie community yet, despite it having been a few weeks. ‘Hey, Mike. I know you ain’t been here very long, but how’s about you come back to the boardin’ house after morning sell. You don’t hafta stay, but at least get a nap and some half-decent grub in you before you head back.’ He pats the kid on the shoulder with a smile and heads towards the waterfront, hoping to catch the early-rising tourists, keeping his step light even as his head worries.

 

He hopes Mike takes his offer. Boys from Bad Homes need to integrate into the lifestyle and the local group sooner rather than later. Race has seen a few kids lost because they didn’t have anyone to talk to, anyone to run for help to. They saved some, him and Jack together – Crutchie, Romeo, Elmer – but he’s heard stories. Mike reminds him of how Romeo used to be, withdrawn and silent, that same quietly haunted look.

 

He hopes they can save him too.

 

* * *

 

Morris watches Racetrack traipse away, somewhat shocked at the boy’s offer. He’s aware that his body would like nothing better than an uninterrupted sleep and a good meal, but he has to consider the obvious problems. Would it really be okay for him to stop by when he was still a little unsure of his disguise?

 

In the end, he decides against it, and makes his way to the dockyard after the last paper is gone, where he trades two pennies for a battered parcel wrapped in yesterday’s headline. He lets his mind wander as his feet lead him to one of his favourite places – an old jetty reaching out into the river – and he sits on the edge, dangling his legs and tossing pebbles into the water. He closes his eyes as the breeze plays with his fringe and brushes gently at his bare arms, sending little shivers across his shoulders.

 

A cramp makes itself known at the top of his arm and he stretches, wincing as his side burns and prickles, lifting the side of his shirt to survey the dark blotch against his pale skin. _Oscar don’t know his own strength,_ Morris thinks to himself, leaning back and watching the clouds. _Prob’ly didn’t mean t’ hit that hard._

 

**_Mrrow?_ **

****

Several furry bodies brush against him, and the parcel crinkles as Ginger and a sleek black cat nose at whatever’s inside. ‘Ginger, Stars, wait fer the others! And get them claws away, you orange menace, that’s bad manners.’ He smiles as another black cat trots toward the little group, followed closely by a fluffy, ageing calico, her greying paws still dainty as she pads across the salt-crusted wood. ‘Here they are. ‘Lo, Adeline, Sir Tuxedo. Little late today, ain’t ‘cha? That’s okay.’

 

Morris crosses his legs to let Adeline clamber into his lap, stroking the tricoloured fur and untying the string around the crinkled paper beside him. ‘I got sardines today. The fellers at the docks gave ‘em to me real cheap on account of them bein’ kinda bruised.’ He takes two of the little fish from the pile before the younger cats leap on the tasty morsels, breaking them into pieces so his old friend can easily chew. ‘I hope your old bones ain’t sore from walkin’ all this way, Adeline.’

 

The cat noses his arm, and Morris smiles, his nerves soothed by her calming presence. Perhaps he’ll forgo his run today, the sun and the sea breeze and the companionship of his cats casts a pleasant curtain over yesterday’s bruises.

 

He’s got a few hours yet. He can stay for a while.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a rescue, an uneasy night at home, and a decision.

'Hey, squirt. How's about you give us them earnin's?'

 

Morris' eyes fly open and he looks around, but it's not him the trio of tough-looking boys are talking to. Instead, they're surrounding a kid he vaguely recognises as the younger Jacobs brother (Liam? Len? Les, that's it.) He lifts Adeline off his lap and sets her next to the others, prodding the parcel of sardines further open and standing, a sigh escaping his lips. Here he is, probably about to have a fight on his hands, and he promised himself he wouldn't attract attention. But three against one is low even for his admittedly rotten standards, especially when the one is about half the size of the others.

 

But he's _trying_ now, in a strange, roundabout way, and this is a step.

 

Turns out three against one is unfair odds no matter the situation, especially when the three are yellow-bellied cowards and the one is rather tall and has cold hard ice for eyes. It makes him a little uncomfortable to know that he's threatening enough without the Delancey title, if he's honest. But he has to shelve those thoughts as the scabs return with their friends, and he scoops the kid up, making a run for it.

 

* * *

 

Les can't believe his luck when the tall kid from the harbour (Ike? No, Mike, that's it) snatches him from right under the nose of the mean-looking boys trying to take his hard-earned coin. They stop in a tiny alleyway, watching their pursuers run past shouting curses, and he takes a moment to appraise his rescuer.

 

He's tall, that's for sure, taller even than Jack and Davey, and strong too, having picked up Les like a sack of potatoes earlier.

 

'Thanks for savin' my hide back there,' he pipes up, and Mike nods abruptly, like he wasn't expecting it. 'S'no trouble. Them scabs is cowards, really.'

'Yeah, but you made 'em run for their pals without even havin' to use your fists! That's gotta be a apter-tude!' Les replies excitedly, and the older boy quirks his head to the side. 'What's apter-tude?'

'... I think it means that a fella's real good at somethin'.'

'Oh. A'ight.'

 

The scabs are far away by now, so Les trots out into the street, before turning back and shooting Mike a wide grin. 'You comin'? It's almost time t' eat!'

 

Morris considers Les' offer for a long moment, looking up at the sky, trying to judge the number of hours left until evening distribution. He's got time. 'Okay. Where we goin' to?'

'Jacobi's, a'course! C'mon, the others are probably there already!' He runs off, and Morris, after thoroughly checking his disguise, follows. It'll avert suspicion, he tells himself, and ignores the desire for friendly company that waves at the back of his mind.

 

He's only doing this to blend in. He won't stay long.

 

* * *

 

Davey is pacing when Specs walks into the deli, and he makes eye contact with Jack over the younger boy's head, raising a brow. 'What's up?'

 

Jack opens his mouth to reply, but Davey beats him to it, running a hand through his hair anxiously - and not for the first time, judging by his disheveled state. 'Les is late. He always gets here before me, always, and I've been waiting for almost half an hour, what if something happened-'

'Breathe, Davey. Maybe he jus' went for a wander?'

'No, he wouldn't do that, it's not like him -'

 

It's precisely then that the object of all the anxiety saunters through the door, followed by a taller newsie who they vaguely recognise as the new kid, Mike.

 

Les squeaks as he's swept into a tight embrace, Davey fussing over him and asking a thousand questions, causing the kid to huff in annoyance. 'Davey, I'm fine, we was just escapin' this bunch a' scabs!'

'We?'

'Yeah, Mike saved me! He gave the scabs this nasty glare an' they ran like rabbits! But then they came back with their buddies so we had to scarper an' find somewhere to hide.'

 

Mike shifts awkwardly as the attention turns to him, scuffing a foot against the tiles. 'It weren't nothin',' he mumbles, looking at the floor.

Davey waves away the humble admission, his brother still pressed to his side. 'Thanks anyway. I was real worried about him.'

'I was right there anyways. Weren't anyone else that coulda helped.'

'Mike, can you teach me to look tough?' Les pipes up, and the older newsie blinks in shock, astonished at the request. 'Well... I don' really have a technique or nothin', I'm jus' tall... but I guess I could try t' teach ya,' he finishes lamely, giving in to the kid's puppy eyes.

‘Hooray! Davey, I’m gonna learn to be tough so that you don’t have to worry about me so much!’

 

Davey laughs, steering Les to their usual spots beside Jack, and the leader listens intently to the kid’s story, glancing over to where Mike is looking around nervously, clearly feeling like he doesn’t belong. ‘Hey, Mikey, come sit with us, ya look as if you’re about t’ fall over!’ he calls, and the boy blinks in surprise, before making his way around the tables to the empty seat beside Les. The other newsies are starting to wander in, and Mike anxiously fiddles with his hat, twisting it between his hands as he taps his toes on the floor. Davey notices his agitation and smiles reassuringly, passing him a glass of water. ‘Not too good with crowds?’

‘Nah.’

‘Me neither.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

 

Mike seems calmer after the exchange, perhaps understanding that he’s not the only one unnerved by the close atmosphere, but if Davey can keep his cool, then so can he.

 

* * *

 

The next two hours pass by relatively quick, several newsies giving him brief welcomes and Les occasionally asking him questions about fighting that he answers on autopilot, his mind wandering away from the noise until he sees the time and slips out the door, heading for home as normal.

 

Morris is silent all throughout evening distribution, keeping his hat low over his eyes and taking his place on the balcony as soon as the newsies arrive. When the boys file out of the gate, he makes his way inside, hanging his hat on the peg and moving to stoke the living-room fire before his brother and uncle enter. Oscar’s temper seems to have improved a little since last night, and Wiesel hasn’t been at the bottle since this morning, so he figures it’s safe for him to prepare a simple meal for the three of them, as he does on the better days. His brother nods at him as Morris passes him a plate, and they eat in silence around the old table, as close to a real family as they get these days.

 

He’s the last to leave the table, and as he clears the plates he thinks back to earlier in the afternoon, when the only silence was the moment before a punchline and every face held a smile. It leaves a spark in his chest, a tiny speck of warmth, and he’s never realised just how cold he always feels before now. As he wraps himself in his tattered blanket, Morris stares out his tiny window at the stars, and decides that his one spark is infinitely warmer than any faraway light.

 

Tomorrow, he’s going to start a new chapter. Tomorrow, he decides, the story changes for the better.


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is Crutchie, signs of mental instability, and several hours at the boarding-house.

Crutchie hums as he hobbles back towards the boarding-house, hoping to get in a nap before evening distribution. The newsies had cleared out of Jacobi's earlier than usual due to it being a busy day, and if he's got time to catch up on sleep while he can, he's going to. No sense in being too exhausted to sell.

 

A strange sound catches his attention from a nearby alcove, and he moves closer, only to have an arm whip out and grab his shirt, pulling him out of view. He's about to wrestle out of the hold and lay down a beating if necessary, when the familiar sight of a newsie cap catches his eye and he pauses, taking in the lanky boy who still has a grip on his arm. It's just the new kid, he realises, and sighs in relief as the other's hand untangles itself from his sleeve. 'Way to spook a guy, Mike.'

'Sorry,' the other replies quietly, 'couldn't really warn ya.'

'Why not?'

 

Mike nods in the direction of the street, and Crutchie peeks back around the corner, surveying the milling crowd. 'I don't see nothin'.'

'Further t' the right. The rough-lookin' fellas in th' grey shirts.'

'Oh, yeah, they don' look too nice.'

'They been followin' you for three blocks. I saw 'em start tailin' you from my corner.'

Crutchie frowns. 'Then I'm glad you was payin' attention. I gotta get back t' the boardin'-house, any ideas?'

 

Mike seems to consider this for a long moment, before crouching down to sort through the pebbles lying at their feet. He hefts a few small ones in his hand, pursing his lips in thought. 'You got a slingshot?'

'Nah, not on me.'

'Hm. Wait here,' Mike replies, and vanishes around the corner of the building. Crutchie watches him go, before turning back to see what the other boy's plan could possibly be.

 

* * *

 

Morris clambers up the fire escape, pebbles tucked safely in his trouser pocket. His plan relies on good aim and a knowledge of the thuggish type Crutchie's stalkers are composed of, and he's fairly confident he can pull it off.

 

**_"You want some 'a that too, y' lousy crip?"_ **

 

' _Shut_ it, Delancey,' he mutters, shoving down the old guilt and focusing on the task at hand, crawling to the edge of the roof. The tails - three of them, stumpy and brutish - are situated conveniently in their own little section of sidewalk, clearly searching for the boy currently hidden in the convenient alcove. _That's right, keep lookin'. You're right where I want ya._

 

He winds up and lets the tiny missile fly, soaring over to slap straight into the nearest man's shoulder. He jumps as if stung, and whirls on the man behind him, yelling something indistinct. Morris snorts in amusement as the three devolve into an argument, another well-placed pebble resulting in what looks to be a promising fight. Bystanders look on curiously, excited for a scuffle, and he slips back to where Crutchie is watching the gathering in fascination. 'Quick, before they 'member they was after someone.'

 

The two boys scuttle down the side street, the cheering of the crowd growing faint as they gain distance. Crutchie laughs, a contagious giggle, as they wander past the boats, and Morris' face quirks unknowingly into a slight smile.

 

'You got good aim, Mike,' the smaller boy says, grinning at him. 'You an' Finch should have a contest sometime.'

'I dunno if I c'd beat that slingshot 'a his.'

'Hmm.'

 

* * *

 

'Run,' Crutchie yells, and they race for the boarding-house door as the clouds burst and rain begins to bucket down. Morris rings the bell, and the heavy wooden door opens to reveal a kindly old face, eyes twinkling at the bedraggled pair on the doorstep. 'Well, Crutchie boy, seems your leg was right after all. The others ought to be back soon, but the fire is already stoked.'

'Thank ya, Mister Kloppman.'

'In you come now, and take off your wet boots. Who's this young fellow? I haven't seen him around.'

 

Crutchie grunts as he pulls off his stubborn boots, flashing a wide grin. 'He's new, Mister Kloppman. This's Mike. Mike, this 's Mister Kloppman, he runs th' place.'

'Uh... nice t' meet ya, mister,' he replies, stumbling over the sentence. 'I ain't stayin' long, I gotta get back home soon-'

 

His stomach gives an audible growl, and he curls inward as Crutchie gives him a pitying glance. 'You eat _anythin'_ today? Y' weren't at Jacobi's.'

'Um...' The answer's no, of course, because the bottle of hooch hadn't been in the cupboard like it should, instead open and half-empty on the sideboard, and he'd crept back upstairs until bell. He shakes his head, shame colouring his cheeks, and Crutchie tugs at his arm. 'C'mon, Mikey. We got some bread an' cheese an' apples for the boys who miss lunch. Get some grub in you b'fore you head home.'

'O-okay...'

 

Morris unties his boots, the leather letting out a brief squelching sound as he tugs them off. He follows Crutchie into a large common area, tables and chairs scattered around and a crackling fire in the grate.

 

It's strangely nostalgic.

 

* * *

 

Specs shakes his wet hair out as he steps inside the boarding house, smiling at the sounds of laughter coming from the common room. ‘What’s all the noise?’ he calls, and Elmer pokes his head around the doorframe. ‘Heya, Specs! Y’ gotta come hear Romeo’s story, it’s a cracker!’

‘A’ight, give me a sec!’

 

Pulling off his soaked shoes, he traipses over to the table where the other four boys are seated, nodding a greeting to Crutchie and Mike. ‘So, what’s this story then, kid?’

 

Romeo launches into a retelling of an earlier altercation between a policeman and an old woman outside the train station, Elmer and Crutchie rolling with laughter as he describes the hilarious incident in detail. Specs is amused, but his curiosity is peaked by the look on the new kid’s face. He seems unsure of how to react, as if he hadn’t been properly taught how to laugh - which is a ridiculous notion because no one _learns_ to laugh, he thinks. But that’s what it looks like, and Specs knows that look, because Elmer, currently having trouble staying upright due to his own laughter, used to have that look.

 

Specs has heard a little about Mike from Race – he’s probably around Crutchie and Davey’s age, is very quiet, only sells in the morning – though he’s never at distribution, so he’s usually late to reach his spot, which is at the harbour right near the Brooklyn Bridge. He’s only been selling a few weeks, and is clearly having some trouble settling in to the newsie community. Race and Jack have been a little concerned about his general wellbeing, and now that he’s seeing the kid up close, Specs is starting to understand why, particularly when Albert flings the door open when he saunters in, and the briefest flinch crosses Mike’s shoulders.

 

He slips out not long after that, quietly citing a need to get back home underneath the raucous laughter at the table, leaving the other boys unaware of his absence, and Specs’ mind with a niggling worry.

 

Later, when everyone else returns, he’s going to speak to Jack.


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jack starts to show off his big-brother side, and Morris finds yet another spark of hope.

'Hey, Mike!'

 

Morris looks up from where he's sitting in his usual spot, throwing pebbles in the river as he waits with his parcel of fish. 'Oh, hi.'

'Didn' see ya at Jacobi's again,' Jack says, plopping down next to the younger boy and leaning back to watch the clouds. 'Les was kinda worried you'd got jumped or somethin'.'

Morris hangs his head awkwardly. 'Um... sorry, I shoulda -'

'Mike, it's a'ight. Y' don't have t' do th' same thing as the rest a' the guys jus' to fit in,' comes the placating reply. 'If y' need your own time, they'll respec' that.' Jack pats him gently on the shoulder, frowning when he's rewarded with a tiny flinch and nervous shake of the head. 'Y' okay? Sore spot, huh?'

'Had 'n accident,' Morris murmurs, hoping that the other boy will believe him and drop the subject.

 

Thankfully, Jack is distracted as the breeze rustles the paper of the parcel. 'What's that? Smells fishy.'

''Cause it's fish.'

The older boy quirks an eyebrow. 'F'r what?'

 

Morris jerks his head to indicate a spot past Jack, and he turns to see a group of cats skittering down the harbour's edge. A laugh bubbles out of him as they skirt around the unfamiliar person to rub against their human friend, meowing and purring happily as he opens the parcel to reveal a collection of tiddlers. 'They'll prob'ly ignore ya f'r a li'l while. 'S nothin' personal, they jus' don' know you.'

 

* * *

 

When he'd left the deli earlier to check up on Mike's whereabouts, Jack had no idea what he'd be observing at this very moment.

 

He watches, astonished, as one cat, her multicoloured fur greying with age, leaps onto the other boy's lap and is promptly fed small morsels of fish. 'I heard of horse-whisperers, an' I saw a snake-charmer once, but I ain't ever heard of a cat-whisperer. That's gotta be a special talent, Mike.'

 

The younger boy shrugs, stroking the soft fur, and Jack looks down as a head butts imperiously against his arm. The culprit is a sleek black cat, a large patch of white splashed across its chest, who lets out a pleased sound when it receives a scratch beneath the chin. 'Well hey there, pal.'

'That's Sir Tuxedo. He's kinda crazy.'

'Aw, he don't look too - ow, he's usin' me as a stepladder!'

'I warned ya. He's kinda crazy. He won't dig th' claws in if y' don't move too much, jus' stay real still.'

 

Jack freezes, letting Sir Tuxedo clamber up onto his shoulder and perch there like a pirate's parrot. He glances over at the other boy, trying to see if he's doing it right, and catches the tail end of a tiny, unsure smile, like Mike doesn't quite know how to shape the expression. 'C'n I move yet?'

'Yeah. He'll jus' jump off when he gets bored.'

'Ain't th' black ones kinda unlucky?' Jack asks, curious. He's never really been this close to a cat before, as he generally tends to avoid the multitude of strays that roam around the streets. But Mike shows no fear, not around the two black cats or the bad-tempered ginger, and Jack finds himself wondering how desperate the other boy is for friends that he has a routine with a group of animals. Mike looks a little confused at the question, scratching the other black cat behind the ear. 'They ain't been so far. If anythin', they'se been real lucky.'

'Maybe it's just you that's lucky?'

'I dunno about that,' the boy mumbles, lifting the old cat off his knees and standing, staring out over the river.

 

Jack watches him, a nugget of concern wriggling in the back of his mind. Les had described Mike as tough, Crutchie as friendly but awkward, and Specs had expressed worry over the kid's struggle to relate to the other boys. Jack can see now, what they saw, the hallmarks of long-term suffering hidden by the innocence of lanky limbs and messy hair, the flinch when a nearby warehouse door slams. Someone has hurt this boy, made him constantly afraid and unsure, and Jack wants to press, to sit Mike down until he tells all - but he knows that it would only do more harm than good at this point. Mike needs to learn that he can trust them, can run to them if things suddenly go sour. 'Hey.'

 

Mike doesn't shift, but his eyes flick sideways briefly, questioning. 'Hm?'

'What d' you even get up to durin' the afternoons? Y' just sit here with th' cats, or...?'

 

Jack stops as Mike's face shifts into a small, excited smile, breaking the stiff cast of his former flat expression. 'Y' really wanna know?' the younger boy asks, and he nods, curiosity rising when Mike scampers back down the dock towards a nearby alleyway.

 

He quirks an eyebrow at the clatter of a fire escape, and follows.

 

* * *

 

Morris has never shown anyone his secret hobby. Ever. Not that he's had anyone to show. But he's trying to make friends, and perhaps this is a start.

 

He looks out over the rooftops, planning a route in his mind, something fun but not too dangerous. A clatter from behind him signals the appearance of Jack over the edge of the roof, and he points to a spot further down. 'Y' see that chimney-pot?'

'Yeah?'

'Watch this.'

 

He does a short run up, then vaults over the chimney-pot, twisting into a back handspring and landing firmly on the balls of his feet at the top of a retaining wall. Jack claps and cheers, and Morris jokingly bows, a wide smile plastered onto his face. The rooftop is his space, and the instant he stepped off the fire escape he could feel the heaviness in his limbs melting away. He gazes out over the skyline, considering the time he has left before he has to head back to the distribution yard. ‘I’ll see you guys tomorrow, Jack.’

‘Where you goin’?’ the older boy queries, tilting his head as he tries to see what Morris is looking at.

‘Runnin’.’

‘Runnin'?’

‘Yeah,’ he whispers, taking a few steps back and tucking his hat into his waistband. ‘Runnin’.’ He takes off like a shot, and as the wind whips through his hair he forgets his leftover aches and bruises.

 

‘Y’r gonna have t’ teach me that!’ comes the faraway yell from where Jack still stands on the rooftop, and he smiles, the spark in his chest flickering into a flame. First Les, then Crutchie, now Jack. Maybe he can actually do this. Sell papes. Make _friends_. Have a life outside the cold place that is his home. Today, all of that finally feels possible, and his feet have an extra spring in their step as he races across the horizon.

 

It feels good to fly.


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Davey finds a new student, we meet a smart little newsie named Tomato, and Oscar is, as usual, angry about something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The trigger warnings really come into place in the last section of this chapter - please be careful if you are sensitive to depictions of abuse.

Fall is a favourite season for many of the newsies, and as the leaves in Central Park turn orange ever faster and the cold weather creeps in, Davey feels less and less inclined to return to school, despite the fact that his father is convalescing rapidly. It's much nicer to saunter along the streets with Crutchie or Specs or Jack, keeping an eye on the younger boys and occasionally being shadowed by several of the little ones. However, while school moves farther from his mind, he finds himself inclined to teach instead, helping the babies learn their alphabet so they can read the headlines they help sell. Under his earnest tutoring, education has flourished in the boarding-house, and Wednesday and Friday afternoons are reserved for lessons for those who participate.

 

It's on a misty Tuesday, however, that he finds himself a very unlikely pupil.

 

* * *

 

Morris squints at the papers in his hands, trying to make sense of the black squiggles that make up the headline. He'd slept in late, plagued by nightmares, and he'd missed out on opening the gate.

 

Which meant he'd missed catching any newsie talking about the headline.

 

A bubble of irritation rolls in his gut, and he sets his jaw, peering at the words as if staring alone can decipher them. How is he supposed to sell when he can't even hawk the headline? He can't ask one of the newsies for help, they'll just laugh at him.

 

'Oh, hello again! Changed your spot?' comes a voice, and Morris turns to find Davey watching him curiously, head tilted and smiling. He shrugs in reply, not trusting himself to speak as tears of frustration prick behind his eyes. The papers rustle in his hands as he turns back to the headline, and Davey must catch something in his expression because his smile immediately turns to concern. 'Mike? Something the matter?'

 

Hot shame floods his cheeks, and he bites at his already chapped lip, drawing a bead of blood. He screws up his nose at the metallic taste, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and leaving a little red streak. 'I... I can' really...'

'... Mike, can you... do you not know how to read?'

 

Morris shakes his head, watching his feet. He expects Davey to ask how he's managed to sell the last few weeks without the headline, why he never turns up to morning distribution at the same time they do, the reason he didn't just ask for help.

 

He's certainly not expecting Davey to tell him to come to the boarding-house after morning sell tomorrow, without fail, before translating the squiggles and strolling off.

 

* * *

 

Wednesday afternoon finds Morris knocking timidly on the door of the boarding house, only to be dragged in by an overexcited Les as it opens, several of the other boys greeting him as they pass. He follows his excitable companion to the second floor, where Davey is preparing for today's lessons. 'Davey, he's here!'

'Thank you, Les. Can you go help gather up the little ones, please?'

'Alright!'

 

The boy rockets out of the room, leaving Morris standing perplexed in the middle of the floor. 'Um... Davey?'

'Just sit down anywhere, they won't be long. Oh, and here.'

 

He hands Morris a piece of paper, two straight lines of letters running down it, before turning back to a large book on the chair next to him. 'Davey, I - I ain't able t' read this.'

'I know. But you will soon,' Davey grins, raising a cryptic eyebrow at the sound of many little feet on wood floors. Les steps into the room, followed by at least ten smaller children giggling and rushing to take their places cross-legged on the floor with their own lists in their hands, Les passing out pieces of slate and chalk. Morris looks around at the odd sight, before clumsily shuffling to the side and plopping down onto the floor, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.

 

It becomes clear to him that he's failed when one small boy clambers into his lap and sits down with a huff, leaving Morris trying to awkwardly shift his legs into a more comfortable position without sending the boy tumbling. He can hear Les' muffled laughter from the other side of the room, and flushes in embarrassment. He only becomes more confused when a pair of tiny arms suddenly loops around his neck, another child attaching themselves to his back. 'Uh. Hello there?'

''Lo!' chirps his tiny passenger - he thinks it's a girl, but he could be wrong - and Davey finally notices his predicament. 'Bell, you're strangling him, sit down please. Tomato, are you sure you don't want to sit with the others?'

 

The first child - Tomato, apparently - stubbornly shakes his head, but Bell skips back to her place, giving him a wide smile. Davey smiles and nods back, and the lesson begins.

 

* * *

 

Tomato knows he's a smart kid, despite his problems with social cues and his bad arm. So even though Davey likes everyone to sit down and pay attention, he can see that the tall newsie is here for lessons too, and that makes him kind of sad. Tall Newsie has got to be almost Davey's age at least, but nobody's taught him to read?

 

Tomato's a smart kid. He's going to help, he decides, as he scoots over to sit in the older boy's lap, scowling when Bell tries to steal his idea and smiling when Davey asks her to sit down. She's already got her own big newsie to teach her about selling. Tomato doesn't have one yet, so this one's going to be his. And he'll help his newsie learn to read, and they can explore the harbour together.

 

Oh, apparently his newsie's name is Mike. Good. It's always better to call people by their names, after all.

 

* * *

 

Davey allows himself a secretive smile as Tomato points out something on his slate, holding it up so Mike can look over his head and see. They're two of a kind, somewhat awkward and lonesome, aware of their differences to the others around them. However, where Tomato is outgoing and cheerful, Mike is withdrawn and unsure. Perhaps, Davey thinks, this is just what Mike needs, someone to draw him out of his shell. Tomato has yet to choose his teacher, stubbornly waiting for a newsie that needs him as much as he needs them, according to Specs.

 

It seems he's found one.

 

He checks up on them several times throughout the lesson, watching as determination slowly takes over Mike's features, satisfaction replacing it by the end of the hour when he's successfully learned all twenty-six letters, both big and small. Which is rather excellent, since that means on Friday he can start learning how to use them.

 

Davey has a feeling he's going to be a quick study.

 

* * *

 

Morris runs home, a bubble of happiness light in his chest. He practically flies up the scaffolding, slipping into his room and changing in a whirlwind of motion. He's learning to read.

 

He's learning to _read_.

 

Reading means being even better at selling. It means he'll never get lost thanks to street signs he doesn't understand. Reading means _books_ , big ones with all the knowledge he'll ever need!

 

His bubble bursts ten minutes later when the door opens, revealing Oscar's furious face, and for a heart-stopping second he thinks he's been caught. 'Os-'

'Don't,' is the angry reply, and he swallows past the lump in his throat, trying to think about how he could possibly get out of this. Oscar reeks of moonshine, which is never a good time to be around him, and Morris lets out an involuntary, terrified squeak as his brother grabs him by the collar, his glaring eyes staring threateningly into Morris' own. 'Y' know what y' are?'

 

Morris trembles and says nothing, but Oscar doesn't seem to care, gripping the younger boy's chin so he can't turn away. 'Y're _soft_ ,' he slurs, sneering as his brother's eyes dart around in confusion. 'Soft like our ma an’ pa was, an’ look how they turned out, eh? Pa ain’t been seen in New York since th’ trolley strike ended, an’ our ma is _dead,_ deader than th’ skeletons in your closet.’

 

The younger boy draws in a sharp breath at the reminder, his brother grinning that savage smile. ‘Y' ain't scarin' no one anymore, not even if y're asked. Y' don't say nothin' when th' stinkin' newsies give Uncle Wiesel lip, an' you let that disgustin' _cat_ hang 'round the yard,' he spits. Morris' eyes widen, and Oscar laughs, short and sharp, letting go and watching his brother crumple to the floor, shaking. 'Oh, I didn' catch that fleabag this time, but y' can be sure I'll toss 'im in th' river eventually.' He leans down, smile gone from his face. 'Y're a disgrace, Morris Delancey, an' you better stay outta my sight all a’ tomorrow or I'm gonna beat ya black an' blue. Hm… maybe I’ll get lucky an’ you’ll trip over a cobblestone with your damn clumsy legs an’ break your neck…'

 

He slams the door shut as he leaves, and as his footsteps vanish into silence down the stairs, Morris stays trembling on the floor, not trusting himself to move. Oscar hadn't even left any bruises this time, but it still ended with him too scared to speak. Shame coils low in his gut, and he curls into himself, closing his eyes.

 

A soft meow catches his attention, and he opens them again, reaching out as Ginger pads towards him and noses into the circle of his arm, licking at the rogue tear trailing down the boy's face. Morris sits up slowly, gathering the orange cat into his arms and burying his face in the rough fur. 'You gotta be more careful, pal. Y're gonna get caught.'

 

He places the cat on the bed as the implications of what Oscar said set in, and changes back to his disguise, shoving his cap onto his head with whatever small amount of rebellious anger he can muster. 'C'mon, Ginger,' he murmurs, opening the window and letting the moonlight in, the rooftops bright and inviting. Downstairs, the sound of the gate reaches his ears, letting the newsies in for evening distribution. 'We're goin' t' the boardin'-house f’r a while.'


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Morris makes an escape, Romeo puts his bad day on hold, Jack is surprisingly parental, and Davey is, as always, the mom friend.
> 
> (tw for self-harm and panic attack)

The wind bites as Morris scampers desperately across roof tiles and concrete; wintertime is drawing closer, and he's starting to shiver every time he sets foot outside. Snow is almost certainly on the way in the near future, which will make his afternoon escapades more difficult.

 

Not that that's going to stop him.

 

The boarding-house comes into view, and he tucks into a forward roll as he lands, slowing his momentum to a standstill. A sharp stone digs into his arm, but he brushes it off, rubbing at his eyes as he climbs down the fire escape and swings his legs over the windowsill. The room is quiet, bar the sounds of snapping sticks in the grate and the quiet chatter of the little ones downstairs, accompanied by the gentle tones of Mr. Kloppman.

 

Morris rubs a hand across his face, scratching at his wrist in agitation as he sits down on the nearest bed, all the fear of earlier sending adrenaline rushing out of his systems and turning his legs to jelly. A sting beneath his skin heralds the appearance of blood, and he forces his shaking hand to stop, screwing his eyes shut. He's not going to cry. Not here. He can't be weak here, even if the room is empty.

 

'You havin' a rough day too?'

 

He starts, covering his mouth to muffle any sound, and whirls around to find a smaller boy slouched in a hammock not far away, an arm hanging lazily over the side. A brief panic overtakes him before he realises it's Romeo, whose lips twitch in an awkward smile at Morris' reaction. ''S okay. I won' tell anyone if y' don't want me to, but I reckon y' should.' He waves a hand at the next hammock over, indicating a box on the floor. 'That one's free. Y' can use th' crate t' get up,' he murmurs, and Morris walks over, setting the crate down and cautiously getting a leg up, tumbling into the hammock and clinging tightly to the sides as it sways. Romeo huffs a laugh, reaching over to pat his shoulder. 'You'll get th' hang of it.'

 

* * *

 

Romeo waits for Mike to settle, watching quietly as he curls into the blanket and tries to get comfortable. 'What's goin' on, Mike? Trouble at home?'

'... Somethin' like that.'

'A'ight. You wanna talk about it?' Mike shakes his head silently, and Romeo's heart clenches as a single tear trails down the other boy's face, the thin shoulders trembling with the effort of restraining his anguish. 'Mikey, did ya get hurt?'

'No,' is the hoarse reply. 'No, I didn'. But I still jus' sat there like a coward an' let th' words fly at me.'

 

A choked-off noise escapes his throat, horribly recognisable as the sound of desperately trying not to cry, and Romeo reaches out a hand, tangling their fingers together and squeezing gently. 'Y' ain't a coward, Mike. You were jus' tryin' t' stay safe. Ain't nothin' wrong with that.'

'I-I jus' wish -' Mike's voice cuts off with a hiccup, another lone tear spilling down his pale face as he heaves in a shaky breath, followed by another. He buries his face in the pillow, still clinging tight to the hand in his, and Romeo hopes Jack or Race or Specs gets back earlier than usual, because this is a situation that he doesn't really know how to deal with on the other side of things.

 

* * *

 

Jack stretches as he walks through the door of the boarding-house, hearing a satisfying crack as he straightens his back out. He's earlier than most of the boys, having found a prime evening spot near the operas and selling out in only a few hours. 'Man, what a great day!'

 

A floorboard creaks, and he turns to find Romeo peeking out from the stairs. 'Hey, kid. You feelin' any better?' he asks, and Romeo nods, his eyes full of worry. 'What's goin' on?'

The younger boy sighs heavily, biting his lip. 'I need your help, Jack. I dunno what t' do.'

'What d' you mean?'

 

Romeo beckons and vanishes up the stairs, and Jack follows, weaving his way around beds and hammocks to the far side of the room, where the other boy is hoisting himself into his own hammock, reaching out to the next one over and patting its resident's shoulder. They sit up as Jack approaches, and he recognises the pale, frightened face immediately. 'Mikey, what happened? You hurt?' he questions, and Mike shakes his head, taking a few ragged breaths as he swings his legs over the side of the hammock, every muscle tensing to run. The older boy notes the blood under several of his fingernails, and gently takes his other arm in careful hands, his voice taking on a suspiciously paternal quality. 'This counts 's hurt, kid. This 'specially counts 's hurt.'

 

A third tear breaks free in the ensuing silence, but this one is followed by another. And another. And another and another, and Jack pulls Mike out of the hammock, carefully lowering them to sit on the floor and wrapping himself protectively around the shaking boy in his arms. 'That's okay, Mikey. You jus' let 'em all out, I gotcha.'

 

But the younger boy just shivers like a leaf in a storm, and Jack stays there for what feels like hours, his soul crumbling into sharp little pieces as Mike continues to tremble, fingers twisting in the fabric of Jack's shirt. He wants to fight something, someone, wants to break and intimidate. One of his boys is _hurt_ , and Jack Kelly does not play nice when his newsies are on the line. But there'll be time for that later. Jack may have done a lot of crazy things to avenge his friends - run clear across New York, stole a full bucket of fish and left it to go bad in his target's house, brought his slingshot to a knife fight - but the boys always take first priority, _especially_ in situations like this. The greatest danger to Mike's well-being right now is himself, and Jack needs to make sure he calms quickly before he hurts himself again. 'Mike. Mikey, look at me, c'mon.'

 

Mike shakes his head emphatically, a strangled sound clawing out of his chest. Jack pushes him back gently, hands on his shoulders, and tilts his head down to look him in the face. The boy's eyes are empty, tear-tracks making their way down the bloodless face as he scratches at his already-injured arm, and Jack feels a gnawing sense of fear grip his heart, because it's like seeing Tip all over again. They couldn't save Tip. They tried so hard, but those who were there are still haunted by how it ended.

 

Jack swallows down the lump in his throat, his voice taking on the tone used for spooked animals and calming the younger newsies' nightmares. 'Hey, Mikey Boy. 'S just me, jus' dumb ol' Jack. I ain't gonna hurt ya.'

 

There is a quiet knock on the doorframe, and Romeo lets out a sigh of relief as he beckons Davey inside.

 

* * *

 

Morris doesn't really know what's happening in the present moment, except that the arms around him are unfamiliar but somehow still comforting, and he feels like he's going to shake himself apart. Someone is speaking, but the sounds are muffled, and his overwrought brain can't decipher them at this point. There is a weight on his shoulder, and he cautiously raises his head to find Davey looking back at him, a concerned expression on his face. 'Mike, nod if you can hear me, or squeeze Jack's hand.'

 

He can do that, right?

 

He tries to nod, only managing a slight jerk of his head, but it seems to satisfy Davey, as he continues to speak, instructing Morris to focus. 'I need you to breathe, Mike, otherwise you'll pass out,’ he says quietly, gesturing for Romeo to fetch Specs as he surveys the damage to his arm. ‘Just count slowly, breathe in for seven counts, out for eight counts, okay?’

 

He’s _trying,_ but it’s hard to even make one breath last longer than two counts. Jack rubs his back firmly, shifting him so he can sit down on the worn floorboards, the swirling ridges and knots beneath his hands grounding him as he digs his fingernails into the wood. ‘I can’t…’ he manages to wheeze out, finally, and Davey sets a hand flat against his chest, where Morris’ heart is beating like a jackrabbit’s and his constant trembling is all too obvious. ‘You can. I know you can. You’ve just got to start with one, then the rest will be a little easier.’

 

Morris nods again, dragging in one long, shuddering breath, before letting it hiss through his gritted teeth – and the tension beneath his ribs begins to ease. There is a quiet sound from the doorway, and Jack stands up, one hand gentle on Morris’ shoulder before he moves to talk to Specs. Davey stays where he is, guiding him through careful, slow breaths, his brown eyes searching the younger boy’s face in concern. ‘You doing any better, Mike?’ he queries, and Morris wavers, eyes growing heavy as he goes limp, Davey catching him as he collapses.

 

* * *

 

Specs runs over at Davey’s cry of shock, and immediately goes into medic-mode, surveying the boy’s injured arm and checking his pulse and temperature in a matter of seconds. ‘He’s exhausted. That panic would ‘a taken a lot outta him, an’ with him in th’ state he is… it’s no wonder he passed out.’

‘Whatta ya mean “state,” Specs?’ Jack asks, helping Davey move Mike to a nearby bed.

‘Well, he ain’t been eatin’ much at all, that’s f’r sure, an’ that panic had t’ have somethin’ behind it.’

 

‘It’s a Bad Home, Jack,’ Race states plainly, entering the room. ‘I knows the signs. We gotta do somethin’.’

‘You know we can’ do anythin’ until he trusts us completely, an’ he don’t. He’s hidin’ from us, Race. I see it in ‘is eyes, he don’t know what t’ do with th’ friendship we’re offerin’.’

Race growls in frustration, and Jack knows he sees Tip sometimes too, and Berry as well. ‘So what d’ we do, Jacky?’

 

‘I’ll help him,’ comes a voice from the doorway, and they turn to find Crutchie standing as straight as he’s able, determination on his freckled face and Tomato pressed close to his side.

Jack frowns, worry in his eyes. ‘You really wanna dredge up some a’ them old memories, Crutch?’

‘If it means savin’ another kid needs savin’, then yeah, Jack, I do,’ the younger boy replies, voice quiet. ‘He needs a friend, he needs someone who understands what he’s goin’ through. I’ll help him. We can save him, Jack. I know it.’


	8. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morris wakes up, Tomato is an adorable bean, and Crutchie is a good friend.

Things come back in a haze.

 

The entire night feels like a bad dream, but the world is quiet as he glances around with what little faculties he has, trying to piece together his surroundings. A dry cough catches in the back of his throat, and a careful hand settles on his back as he curls over, face pressed into the pillow. ‘’S okay, Mike. Jus’ take it easy, y’ had a rough time las’ night.’

‘C...‘ – he coughs again, voice hoarse – ‘Crutchie?’

‘Yeah, it’s me, pal. You okay to sit up?

He nods, and the younger boy helps him up, handing him a cup with a scent he vaguely recognises wafting from it. Crutchie must notice his curious look, as he holds up a small wooden box, letting it shake so they can hear the contents shuffle inside. ‘Chamomile tea. Mister Kloppman keeps some f’r situations like this. It’s good f’r the soul.’

 

Morris replies with a quiet hum as he sips at the fragrant brew, feeling the tightness in his chest slowly ease as the cup begins to empty. The subtle taste rolls over his tongue, and he remembers chipped blue china cups and blackberries on saucers, dark auburn hair in a thick braid and musical laughter followed by soft kisses on his forehead. Blinking quickly, he fishes out the muslin bundle at the bottom and drains the dregs in one go, passing the cup into Crutchie’s waiting hand. ‘Thank you,’ he whispers, and the other boy smiles gently, patting his knee.

‘’S no problem. You looked like ya needed that,’ he replies, leaving to put the tea and cup away.

 

Morris wraps his arms around his knees, balancing on the edge of the mattress, and he’s so focused on the bruise on his shoulder – this one isn’t from Oscar, but rather from taking a tumble on the roofs last night – that the small hand on his leg nearly startles him off the bed. He refocuses as the owner of the hand spouts a stream of anxious apologies, and blinks as Tomato’s embarrassed face comes into view. ‘Oh… hiya, Tomato. Sorry, I didn’t realise you was right there.’

‘I’m real sorry, Mike!’

 

He bites his lip awkwardly, unsure of how to respond. He’s really not used to kids at all. ‘Hey… I’m really fine. I jus’ didn’ see ya there. You’re real sneaky, y’know?’ He pats the boy’s shoulder lightly, and feels a little thrill of victory when he gets a surprised grin in return. ‘Reckon you could learn how t’ be even better at it if ya tried real hard.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

 

Tomato positively gleams at the prospect, bouncing on his heels before jumping onto the mattress beside him and pulling a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘Look, I wrote this whole parry-graph yesterday! Davey says I need t’ learn more ‘bout grammar, but he was still real happy with it!

 

Morris squints at the carefully-scrawled lines, impressed at the boy’s neatness but unable to decipher the words. ‘Must ‘a taken you a while.’

‘Yeah, but it looks real good!’

‘What’s it say?’

 

Tomato points out every word, stumbling over some in lieu of his usual lightning-fast speech. Morris nods along, listening as the boy explains about the lizard he saw yesterday morning and the yellow streaks on its back. It feels strangely… normal, especially when Specs walks in and questions the tiny child about the story, as if he wasn’t here to check up on his patient. Even that feels like a routine task, and Morris doesn’t really have time to be embarrassed about his breakdown the previous night before Tomato is tugging on his hand and trying to pull him downstairs. Specs laughs, hoisting the boy up and grinning at the grousing he gets in return as he slings him over his shoulder. ‘You can introduce ‘im t’ the others later, let ‘im get cleaned up first! Washroom’s two doors down, Mike!’ he calls as they leave the room, and then it’s just Morris alone with his thoughts, feeling a bit lost as he trudges down the hall.

 

He can’t go home until later tonight, so what is he supposed to do all day? He glances out of the window – morning sell would already be underway – and there’s no way he could pick up any papers for evening sell, not under Oscar’s determined threat to stay out of his sight until tomorrow. Going home is too dangerous, and his disguise may fool the newsies, but never Oscar.

 

His brother knows him far too well.

 

* * *

 

Crutchie hums quietly as he dusts along the top of the mantel, poking at the smouldering coals in the grate. He’ll set a proper fire later, before the rest of the boys come home, but with less than fifteen people wandering around the boarding-house at the present time, it’s better to conserve fuel.

 

There’s a sound at the window, and he moves to open it, startled as an old calico cat jumps into the room and pads upstairs with a feline’s unerring sense of purpose. ‘What th’ hell?’ A quiet laugh catches his attention, and he trails up through the dormitory towards the washroom, where the cat is purring like a small, regal lion as it winds around Mike’s ankles, a rusty miaow escaping it as the tall boy picks it up to cradle against his chest. Crutchie tilts his head in curiosity, realising suddenly that Mike is sporting the most genuine, if small, smile he’s seen so far. ‘I didn’ know y’ had a cat.’

 

Mike starts in surprise, but relaxes when he recognises the other newsie, fingers carding slowly through the tricoloured fur bundled in his arms. ‘Um… she ain’t mine, really… jus’ a stray I know.’

‘She’s real pretty, though. C’n I pet her?’

‘… If y’ want to,’ is the reply, and Crutchie steps closer to run his hand over the silky white head, giggling as a raspy tongue licks at his thumb. ‘That tickles.’

‘She likes lickin’ people. I think it’s ‘cause she tries t’ mother folks.’

‘Did’ja name her? She needs a real pretty name, I reckon,’ the smaller boy states, and his excited face changes to concern when a flicker of pain passes through Mike’s blue eyes. ‘Mikey?’

‘She’s got a name, it’s… it’s Adeline.’

Crutchie smiles softly. ‘Now, that _is_ real pretty. It suits her, I like it. How’d ya think it up?’

 

The tall boy swallows hard before replying, his voice quiet as he looks away. ‘… It w’s my mama’s name.’

 

* * *

 

Morris doesn’t quite know why he just trusted Crutchie with a piece of his past life, but the other newsie only nods slowly, one hand scratching behind Adeline’s ears. ‘Y’ wanna tell me a bit about her?’

‘I… okay.’ he murmurs, and Crutchie pulls him out of the washroom, leading him up the stairs and onto the open space of the roof. He flips over a wooden crate to sit on and stretches his leg out, kneading at a sore spot. ‘Tell me a li’l somethin’, Mike.’

 

What to tell? There’s so much there, much of it needing to be kept secret so he doesn’t reveal something he shouldn’t, and bad memories mixed in with the good – fever and nightmares and a brother who stopped caring. But just as he’s growing frustrated with his inability to push away the gloom that pervades his mind on these days, one quiet memory taps at the door of his mind, and his mouth twitches in a faint smile. This one. This one is safe, and good, and he can’t believe he’d nearly forgotten it.

 

_One day, when he was six, Mama woke him up early in the morning and told him to dress quickly, because they were going somewhere special. He loved surprises, and she loved giving them, so he was ready in a flash and they were out the door, his mother and brother and his little self trailing beside them. Outings were few and far between, so there was always a great deal of excitement on Mama’s ‘special surprise days.’_

_They had jumped on a trolley – not Da’s trolley, Da worked further uptown – and ridden it all the way to Central Park, where all the flowers were in the full bloom of spring. It was beautiful, all reds and blues and pinks and so much green, and though he felt a little scruffy walking near the Midtown folk, he was soon distracted by a flock of pigeons, not raggedy like the ones he was used to but plump and proud and ever so funny, with their puffed-out chests and shimmering feathers. Mama had brought a little paper bag full of crumbs, and he laughed as the birds trotted to him, gasping as he saw a rare white bird in the middle of the flock._

_Mama let them chase the pigeons for some time, smiling as they shrieked and laughed, before gathering up her hat and umbrella and beckoning them to follow. He had fallen in step beside her, slipping his hand into hers, and his brother had done the same on her other side. The three of them smiled wide as they strolled through the park, watching high-class and middle-class mix with paperboys, shoeshines and deliverymen, all surrounded by a thick carpet of emerald grass and the shade of the trees. They stayed until the sun began to dip below the top of the tall buildings, and the clouds began to gather above, before Mama declared it was time to leave…_

He trails off, and his breath hitches as he remembers the way she swooped him into her arms when his stubby legs got tired, carrying him home with her other hand curled around his brother’s small shoulders. Oscar had known how to smile back then, face freckled and squinched as he danced ahead, jumping in the puddles as the rain began to fall. He’d been sick afterwards, but had shaken it off after a few days.

 

He’d always been the tough one.

 

A touch to his arm brings him back to the present, and he looks up to find Crutchie smiling a watery sort of smile. ‘She sounds real nice.’

‘Yeah, she was…’

‘How old were ya when y’ lost her?’

‘… Eight.’

 

Crutchie’s mouth twists, his eyes speaking nothing but compassion. ‘Lotta the other boys, it’s much th’ same. You got any family left? Your da?’

‘Left us with our uncle not too long after,’ Morris admits, vision blurring with moisture. ‘He was sick too, after she died, jus’ in a different kind ‘a way. He couldn’ handle th’ memories… ‘specially not ‘round me, when I got her eyes an’ her hair an’ her smile. An’… my brother weren’t ever the same. Said Da had betrayed us. He got bitter, angry. Like my uncle.’

‘Why’d you stay?’ Crutchie asks quietly. Careful. Serious.

‘… I don’t know,’ he whispers, the words twisting in his gut. ‘He’s my brother. I don’t know.’

‘Okay. Y’ don’t haveta talk about any more t’day if you don’t want. We jus’ want to be sure you’re alright.’

‘… Why?’

 

Crutchie looks shocked at the question, his eyes sad. ‘Because you’re one a’ us now. We care ‘bout you an’ we want ‘cha to be okay.’

‘But… why would ya want to do that? I-I’m not useful or interestin’ or important or nothin’…’

‘Who – whoever told you that, Mike?’ Crutchie says, and his voice is strangely hoarse.

 

‘Jus' anyone...’


	9. Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crutchie and Specs discuss the situation, we meet a whole bundle of little ones, and Elmer makes an appearance.

Specs hums as he washes up the dirty breakfast dishes, listening to the little ones giggling in the next room. It’s Thursday, so four of them are out with their various teachers, learning the tricks of the trade and the rules of the street. The remaining six – bar Tomato – are engaged in what seems to be a surprisingly quiet activity, and he can only hope that they’re not up to some mischief that Mr. Kloppman will have to clean up after. The last game they invented when left alone ended up with Sniper and Mush scrubbing fruit stains out of not only the little ones’ clothes, but several pillows as well.

 

Speaking of Tomato, Specs has to hold back a huff of amusement as the small boy appears on the staircase, dragging Mike behind him by the hand. Seems that he’s making good on his plan to introduce the older newsie to his friends _properly_ , and Mike is not sure how to react. He really has nothing to worry about. Specs has no doubt that his general good nature, curious tendencies, and considerable height will make him quite popular with the babies, but the other boy is clearly not aware of that in the slightest. He returns to the dishes, glancing back as Crutchie makes his way down the steps, collapsing onto the end of a bench and leaning on the table, eyes closed. Specs doesn’t speak, sensing that the younger boy needs to gather his thoughts, the look on his face carefully composed.

 

Several minutes pass before Crutchie lets out a soft, harsh sigh, dropping his face to the rough wood, and Specs dries his hands, quietly seating himself next to his friend on the bench. ‘It’s bad, isn’t it.’

‘It’s real bad, Specs. I’d hoped we c’d help him adjust t’ this life, maybe we could help him out a’ whatever situation he’s in, but…’ He pauses, lifting his head from his arms and staring into the distance. ‘He thinks so damn little of himself, ‘cause no one’s told him otherwise f’r years. It’s like Elmer all over again, only worse. An’ with what li’l he told me ‘bout what it’s like for him at home – I can’t help but ‘member everythin’ that went down when Romeo joined us, an’ how close a thing it was.’

Specs drags a hand over his eyes. He joined the newsies about halfway through the entire Elmer situation, but he had front-row seats for what happened with Romeo, and he understands completely what Crutchie is implying. ‘So what you’re sayin’ is, we gotta ditch our first plans for includin’ him in with th’ boys and focus on keepin’ him alive instead.’

‘Yeah, Specs. That’s exac’ly what I’m sayin’.’

 

* * *

 

‘C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, ya gotta meet everyone, it’s important t’ know people’s names!’

 

Tomato’s excitement would normally be infectious to anyone with a basic grasp of emotions, but Morris, drained after his talk with Crutchie earlier, can only nod and follow the tiny boy into a large room full of chairs, cushions and other useful seating options, cherry-red coals popping in the grate. Five other children are gathered in a huddle, quietly talking amongst themselves – though much of it seems to be just giggling. They turn around as Tomato scampers up to them, listening to his excited ramble before moving their heads as one to stare at him curiously. He shrinks a little under the intense gazes, but Tomato tugs at his hand, leading him into the little circle and motioning for him to sit.

 

Morris sits, not wanting to be rude, and Tomato plops down beside him with an air of importance, nodding at the only girl in the circle, whose name he vaguely recalls as Bell. She grins at him, ear-to-ear, and re-introduces herself, making comment of her place as Specs’ student, learning to invent and look after the sick and injured. He’s curious about this, having seen various little ones following different newsies around, clearly not just learning about selling papers.

 

Next is Rowley, taller and lankier than the others – the oldest at eight-and-a-half years – who helps Darcy with writing and delivering letters when needed, and red-haired Tadpole, who is Jojo’s apprentice in tailoring and mending. Coney, a stocky, somewhat clumsy boy, learns the tricks of scavenging from Buttons, and finally the loud but well-spoken Slip is Albert’s trainee cook, a job they clearly adore going by their messy apron and the sliver of carrot peel stuck in their curly hair. The names bounce around his muddled brain, and he just knows he’s going to mess one up eventually, but their earnest smiles and rambling chatter light another small spark of warmth in his heart, and he lets the tension bleed from his shoulders as they talk.

 

Morris listens for several long minutes, taking in as much information as his poor tired mind can handle, before a familiar sensation brushes against his arm, and he looks down to find Stars clambering into his lap, settling down with a quiet sigh. He huffs in amusement – how on earth does his posse know how to find him at any time of day? – scratching between her ears, before realising the room has gone completely silent.

 

When he looks up again, he blinks as he finds all six little ones staring enraptured in his direction. ‘Um. What’s wrong?’

‘Is ‘at _your_ cat, Mike?’ Coney whispers, brown eyes huge, and beside him Slip tilts their head, reaching out a small, hesitant hand towards Morris’ feline companion and gasping in shock and delight when Stars swipes her rough tongue over their fingers. ‘It tickles!’

 

Rowley giggles, copying them and laughing as he receives the same result, and the others shuffle closer, wanting to get a better look. Morris has to force himself not to shy away – he’s not used to this much attention – but Stars purrs softly as she nudges his hand, and he calms. Tomato has propped his elbows on Morris’ knee, chin in his hands as he curiously surveys the black mound of fur. ‘I thought black cats was s’posed t’ be unlucky, but she’s too pretty t’ be unlucky, ain’t she, Mike?’ He sounds worried, as if someone had already made such an assumption about the cat, but Morris shakes his head. ‘She don’t seem t’ be. She’s had kits twice an’ none of ‘em died.’

 

The babies nod solemnly, taking in this information, and he finds himself stifling an unexpected chuckle. A brush against his back startles him, but it’s just Adeline, finally having made her way downstairs to butt against his arm. His audience lets out a series of happy gasps at her appearance, and he lifts her carefully to drape around his shoulders, since Stars has already commandeered his lap. ‘Y’ want to know more ‘bout cats?’ he asks the captivated little ones, and on receiving a chorus of questions in return, he can’t help but smile.

 

* * *

 

Elmer yawns as he flops onto a chair, peering curiously at the little huddle in the corner of the room. Mike is talking to the little ones, more animated than the few times Elmer has actually seen him around. There’s something in the taller boy’s arms, and he cranes his neck to try and see what it is, but… hang on, what was that white thing draped over his back?

 

Wait, was that a _cat?_

 

A small hand nudges his arm, and he glances down to smile at Kit, hoisting her onto his knee and letting her curl up against his chest. Her eyes are fixated on the gathering, a thumb between her teeth in thought. She doesn’t appear to want to join in yet, though – wary of the newsie who is still essentially a stranger to her – so he doesn’t press her to go sit next to her friends.

 

It’s kind of strange, seeing Mike smile. The last time Elmer saw him, he was trembling on the floor of the dormitory, Jack trying to help as best he could and Specs and Davey hovering in concern. Romeo had left the room with a worried glance back, shooting a significant look at him as he passed, and once Crutchie had ascended the stairs with little Tomato clinging to his side, Elmer had considered it prudent to leave. Clearly Mike wasn’t so different from the four of them. So many of the newsies had been through terrible things, but there were just some situations that left longer-lasting marks. It was good that he’d found them. Elmer knows what the consequences could be if things like this were left to simmer too long.

 

Kit nudges him again, a question in her eyes, and he pokes gently at her nose, enticing a quiet giggle. ‘I’m a’ight. Jus’ thinking.’

 

A shrug, and he laughs, setting her down. ‘It’s nothin’, promise. Let’s go get somethin’ t’ eat.’


	10. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is snow, Miss Medda, and a new furry little inhabitant at the boarding-house.

The first snowfall hits, as always, like a hangover - not there one night and suddenly everywhere in the morning, though it won't last long. The boarding-house is full of the joyful shrieks of the little ones, scrambling to wake up the older boys and digging scarves and mittens from the big closets. Their enthusiasm is infectious, and breakfast is noisy and full of joy despite the cold.

Morris wakes up in his dingy attic room and sighs heavily at the sight of the sky, a shiver running down his arms. Maybe he'll stay in today, avoid the crowds of children and those revelling in the snow. Dragging himself out of bed, he slips on his shirt and slicks back his hair like usual, listening for any sounds coming from downstairs. There is a nudge at his ankle, and he startles, hand over his heart as he takes in the sight of Ginger once again, a dead mouse in the cat's mouth. 'Dammit, you orange menace,' he whispers, frustrated, 'I told ya not to hang around here! Oscar's gonna find ya one day and that'll be it for you!'

Ginger drops the mouse at Morris' feet, looking up at him with a curious mewl, and the boy deflates, crouching down to gather the furball in his arms, smiling at the feel of a raspy tongue scraping his nose. 'Guess y're jus' tryin' to look out f'r me, huh? Ya don't think I got enough t' eat or somethin'? Y'know I can't eat a mouse like you can.' He buries his face in the thick orange fur as usual, relishing the warmth of the animal's body. 'Wish I had fur like all a' youse, it's real cold out.'

There's a crash from downstairs - again - and Morris jumps, Ginger hissing as he lands on all fours. No, he's definitely going out today, despite the cold. Hadn't Jack mentioned a place one could go in passing recently...?

\---

Medda Larkin's theatre is a haven of warmth from the freezing wind, and Albert stamps his feet as he enters the building, smiling at the cheerful stagehand who opened the door. Every newsie knew the theatre was a safe place, somewhere you could go if you were in the area after selling time and needed some warmth or a hiding spot or some peace and quiet. 'Hey, Miss Medda!'  
'Albie, honey, come in!' the dear lady replied, sweeping into the room in a flurry of skirts and smothering the young boy in one of her special "newsie-grade" hugs. Albert thought that perhaps they were what a mother's ought to be like: not too loose and not too tight, giving you a warm squishy feeling inside.

Medda smiles brightly as he lets go, ruffling his bright red hair and leading him into the main hall. 'You aren't the first newsie here escaping the cold today,' she laughs. 'There's one out the back as usual and a new one hiding up on the beams! Quite a talented pair, really, though the young lad up there has yet to introduce himself.'  
Albert looks up, a grin crossing his face as he spots familiar black-and-white stripes. 'Nah, he's jus' shy, likes t' sneak 'round quietly. 'S probably nice 'n' quiet up there. Hey, Mikey!'

A curious face peers down from the rafters, and he waves. 'C'mon down, I'll introduce ya!'

Mike scrambles along the beam, grabbing a pulley rope and sliding to the floor, pulling at his crinkled vest to try and make himself look less bedraggled. Albert claps him on the back, a flicker of concern crossing his face at the visible flinch it causes, and leads him over the to the lady of the theatre. 'Miss Medda, this 's Mikey Boy, our newest newsie, an' a damn good runner to boot. Mike, this is Medda, she's sorta like our adopted aunt or mother or whatever, an' she runs this place.'

Mike shuffles awkwardly. ''S nice t' meet you, ma'am.'  
'Oh, none of that, honey, it makes me feel old. Just Medda is fine, or Miss Medda if you've a mind to be polite,' she replies, and he nods, one hand moving up to scratch nervously at the back of his neck. 'Now, feel free to explore the place, just stay out of the way of the stage crew, they're more than usually clumsy today. Oh, and Jack's out the back painting if that's more your scene, or Albert can show you around, right, Albie?'  
'A' course, Medda. C'mon, Mikey, let's go scare the livin' daylights outta Jack, he gets all focused when he's paintin', it's real funny!'

He tugs Mike towards the stage, and the taller boy follows, his previously lost expression morphing into curiosity. Medda watches them go, smiling. Albert can be abrasive and too quick to speak, but he's always prepared to help out a new boy when the occasion calls for it.

There's a startled shriek from behind the stage, and everyone chuckles before turning back to their work. Medda laughs, her skirt swishing behind her as she goes to check on the girls rehearsal time. This new number was shaping up to be a spectacle.

\---

Morris concentrates on the pencil as it moves across the paper, half-conscious of Tomato leaning against his side. The fire crackles in the grate, along with the rustling of paper as lessons continue, the little ones whispering to each other and giggling as they draw little creatures alongside their letters. Twice now, Tomato has nudged him to pass across a drawing of a bird or lizard, and he can see that Davey is pretending not to notice that the babies are not completely focused on their lesson, so he assumes it's okay to reply with a little doodle of his own.

Tomato giggles and passes it across to a very small girl he now knows is named Kit. She's the youngest of the babies - only five - and speaks with hand gestures that he's only just starting to decipher. He's seen the other newsies holding conversation with her just fine, though, so he's confident he can pick it up. She grins at the little drawing of a cat and turns to Morris, tapping one tiny fist against the apple of her cheek, which he can only assume is her sign for 'good,' considering the brightness of her smile. He does her sign for 'thank you,' and smiles softly at the way her entire face lights up.

The lesson ends too soon for his liking, and his smile drops as he trails down the stairs, mentally planning his route to avoid any accidental confrontation with Oscar, who is out and about today.

'Oh, hey, Mike!'

Morris blinks, turning from where he's about to walk out into the freezing wind to head back to the house. Jack jogs down the stairs towards him. 'I was wonderin' if y' wanted to take part in a li'l holiday tradition we got around here? Y'see, none a' us have the funds t' buy or make every one a' the boys a gift, so we just does one each, like an exchange. So if y' want, y' can have Crutchie, 'cause he's easy t' get stuff for and it's your first time doin' the holiday with us an' all.'

Jack grins, and Morris finds himself smiling too as he nods. It's nice to be included.

Though he promptly spends the entire way back racking his brains for a good gift idea. He doesn't think he's ever given one before.

\---

Christmas Eve is bitterly cold, and it’s easy for Morris to slip out in the morning, a black-and-white smudge against the snow as he sells his thirty papers with chattering teeth and trembling hands. He’s making his way to the boarding-house – just because he can’t run in the middle of winter doesn’t mean he plans to go home early – rubbing his arms to try and keep warm, when he trips on the uneven cobbles of a side street and lands face-first in a snowdrift, dislodging a furry bundle.

Morris picks himself up, spluttering and spitting out slush, and peers at the grey ball of fluff that on closer inspection is revealed to be a kitten, pink nose white with cold and barely breathing. Hurriedly scooping the little creature up, he tucks it inside his vest, close to his heart, and ploughs on through the drifts, feet and hands growing numb before he reaches the boarding-house. Pulling the bell, he shuffles in place, sniffing and shivering.

The heavy door creaks open, and several little ones peer curiously out at their snowy visitor, perhaps wondering if Mikey is really a frost fairy from the north or something to that effect. Jojo, on the other hand, takes one look at his bone-white face and immediately orders him inside, leading him to a cushion beside the fire and draping the closest blanket around his shoulders. ‘Well, I c’n take a guess at what ya oughta get for Christmas – a shirt that’s got some darn sleeves,’ he laughs, drawing a smile from Morris as he pulls the knitted fabric closer. ‘Even th’ Brooklyn boys is wearin’ scarves these midwinter days.’

'Yeah, an' they look ridiculous,' replies Jack as he makes his way into the room, weaving his way through the horde of little ones. 'Spot's fairly swallows 'is entire 'ead.' He claps Jojo on the shoulder, switching places, and starts to untie Morris' boots. 'Get y’ feet out of these here slush-filled shoes and up t' the fire,' he says kindly, placing the soggy boots and socks over by a pile of the others' to dry, before snatching up the pale hands and rubbing briskly at the younger boy's icy fingers. 'Jeepers, Mikey-boy. Why didn’ ya tell us you ain't got anythin' warm? You're 'bout as white as the snow, an' almost as chilled.'

Morris shrugs, curling up tighter and staring into the orange light of the fire. 'Didn' wanna bother anyone,' he mumbles, and Jack sits back on his heels, fixing him with a steely gaze. 'Now, you listen 'ere, Mike. That kinda thing ain't a bother. We take care of each other 'round 'ere, alright?'

Morris isn't quite sure what to say, so he just replies with a soft 'a'ight' and leaves it at that.

The bundle next to his chest gives a little wriggle, and he carefully lifts the kitten out into the open, checking her over. One back leg is badly bent, but the cat's eyes are bright and curious and he has a feeling she'll be alright. He watches her hobble around near his feet, and smiles as she swats at Jack's waving kerchief. 'What's wid you an' cats, Mikey?'  
'Dunno. They ain't scared a' me, I guess, an' they knows I like 'em.' He watches the tiny fluffball wobble unsteadily for a few seconds, before an idea strikes him. ‘Jack, do we have any li’l boxes around?’  
'I think there might be somethin.'


	11. Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Great Newsie Winter Holiday Extravaganza, with a few special guests. Also, an important realisation for Morris.

December the twenty-fifth begins with a shower of rain, unfortunately melting away the last of the snow, but that doesn't stop the residents of New York from celebrating as the clouds gradually disappear, carol-singers moving in herds around the busy streets, the shops and cafes full to bursting, and newsies calling the headlines with an extra measure of cheer for their holiday-befuddled customers.

Morris sells out earlier than usual, and sprints to the boarding-house, stamping his feet on the mat and shaking the water from his hair, leaving it more of a mess than usual. The fire is crackling merrily and the noise from inside is already deafening despite the fact that half of the boys are still caught up in the milling crowds around Midtown and the parks. He slips into the room as silently as possible, trying to hide the visible bruise on his face. Oscar had been in a particularly ornery mood after distribution, and Morris hadn't made his way upstairs fast enough.

Tomato catches him by the stairs and tackles him into a hug, surprisingly powerful for his small size. Morris freezes in shock for several long seconds before sitting down on the stairs to return it properly, his touch-starved skin buzzing at the contact, and the boy giggles, burrowing his face into Morris' shoulder. 'Happy Winter Holiday, Mikey.'  
'Ain't it supposed to be Christmas?'  
'Not for everyone! We jus' made it a holiday that everyone c'n have, even Les an' Davey, 'cause they don' have Christmas at all.'

'It's true!' Les replies jauntily, appearing from upstairs. 'We don't have Christmas, but we come here for the special Winter Holiday because everyone can celebrate that.'  
Morris hums, curious. It certainly sounds like a good idea.

* * *

The next half hour is, surprisingly, rather uneventful, and before long everyone is sneaking into different rooms to fetch parcels from hiding places. Jojo sneaks Morris upstairs to make sure that the kitten is happy in her box, running a finger over the velvety fur on her head and smiling as she purrs. When he returns downstairs, precious cargo clutched safely in his arms, Romeo waves a small package in his general direction, beckoning him over since he can't be heard above the noise. He picks his way over, making sure nothing jostles the box, and sits down, Romeo, Elmer, and Crutchie scooting over to make room.

He sets his burden down in front of Crutchie, making what he hopes is an encouraging face at the older boy's raised eyebrows when there's a shuffling sound from underneath the string-tied lid. '... why's it movin', Mike?'  
Morris shrugs, attempting to feign a nonchalant air. 'Gotta open it t' find out.'  
Crutchie pokes at the string, watching as the box shakes a little. 'Hm. You open yours first, eh?'

Romeo grins brightly, shoving the little parcel into Morris' hands, before sitting back on his haunches, tapping his fingers on the floorboards. Elmer laughs as Crutchie's box moves again, gesturing in the taller boy's direction. 'You better unwrap that quick, before whatever's in there decides it's done with bein' in a box.'  
Morris huffs in amusement, tugging at the newspaper - from last week, he thinks - and revealing two black-and-white... socks, maybe? Romeo chuckles at his scrutiny, and tugs the older boy's arm toward him, slipping his hand through one of the holes and pulling until his entire forearm is encased in hand-knitted warmth, fingers and thumb poking out the two gaps at the other end. 'See? Sleeves.'

Morris blinks, staring at his arm, before his mouth twitches oddly and a sudden bubbling urge makes itself known in his chest and throat. Crutchie raises an eyebrow, a small smile on his face. 'You alright there, Mikey?'  
'I am, 's a real nice gift, but...' - there's a strange hiccuping sound - '... with what Jojo said yesterday, an' Jack was all - an' then -'

The bubbling reaches its breaking point, tingling at the back of his throat.

'- an' then the look on my face musta beheheheheha _ha_!'

He collapses into laughter right there on the rug, unable to contain his joy any longer. It appears to be contagious, as soon Romeo and Elmer are cackling too, Crutchie grinning wildly in the background.

* * *

Jack hears a burst of unrecognisable laughter from the living room, and pokes his head through the doorway to see what's up, face splitting into a wide smile as he sees the little group in stitches on the floor. Crutchie is muffling his laughter behind the hand not holding the little box, shoulders shaking with the force of his mirth. Romeo and Elmer have given up completely, curled into little balls of amusement on the floor.

His smile only brightens when he finds the source of the new sound, spotting Mike flopped haphazardly on the rug, clutching his stomach as he loses control of his emotions completely in one cathartic rush, his laughter bright and genuine and strong enough to pull tears from his eyes, heaving lungfuls of air as he tries to catch his breath. Romeo's gift must have been appreciated, then; he'd worked extra hard on them last night to get them done for Mike's first Newsie Winter Holiday.

The laughter dies down, Elmer flapping his hand at Crutchie. 'Open yours, pal, before we all start up again.'  
Crutchie snickers, wiping the tears of laughter from his face, and tugs at the string, brow creasing as the box moves again. 'I swear, Mikey, if this is a rat or somethin' and you pranked me...'  
'Ain't a rat,' Mike replies, still giggling. 'Jus' open it, you'll like it.'  
'Hmm.'  
  
The box shuffles a third time, and Crutchie gives in, opening the lid. His eyes go wide at the ball of smokey gray fluff, and he reaches a shaking hand inside, picking up the kitten with careful fingers and cradling it in his arms. Romeo gives a tiny squeak, and the kitten echoes it, stepping its front paws on Crutchie's chest to rub against his chin. Elmer looks as if he doesn't dare to move, and Jack hides his laugh with his hand at the expression on his face. Mike's face is open, but a little nervous, and Jack can tell that he's waiting for a reaction - whether good or bad, he clearly doesn't know.

After a long minute, Crutchie says, still staring at the kitten now licking along his frayed collar, 'I'm so stupid. I really am.' When the other three look questioningly at him, he holds out the curled-up kitten, who gives a soft squeak. 'Of all th' guesses I took, rats an' socks an' stick figures an' silly things like that, I was dumb enough t' look over th' most darned obvious choice. So of course it w's gonna be a cat 'cause _what else would it be_?'

Something about the faintly wounded tone of his voice sets them all off again, the kitten chewing Crutchie's thumb as she watches, her small cat face holding no small amount of confusion at these silly hairless creatures. Jack grins, moving to take the kitten as Crutchie doubles over in laughter. 'Once you ridiculous lot 're finished guffawin', this here kit's gotta have a name.'  
'S' winter holiday, Jack,' Crutchie gasps through his giggling, 'no way I ain't namin' her Holly.'

* * *

The rest of the afternoon passes in much the same way. Morris finally pulls on his other "arm-sock" (Romeo gets a fit of the giggles at the word and has to leave the room for a full minute to try and calm down,) waving his hands in the air like a magician. Tomato and several of the other babies are adoring of Romeo's handiwork, declaring them good for snuggles and plopping themselves in the older boy's lap, tugging his arms around them as he tries not to laugh and fails miserably.

Holly stays in Crutchie's arms, newsies cooing at her as they walk past, some patting her head, others waving bits of string for her to bat at. She appears to enjoy the attention, and Morris grins at her delighted squeaks, Crutchie murmuring and kissing her head affectionately. He retells the story of how he found her what seems like a hundred times, everyone cackling about his terrible luck tripping over his own feet turning out so well.

About two hours after he arrived at the boarding-house, there's a ring at the doorbell, and Race goes to answer it. 'Hey, folks, Kath's here, and she brought Davey's sister with 'er!'

And for the first time, Morris is properly introduced (sort of) to Katherine Pulitzer, only really knowing the fiery redhead by sight from his few errands to the offices of The World and from her involvement in the strike. He's unsure of the meeting, and rightly so - her reporter's eye is sharp, and she is the most likely to recognise him even in disguise. However, her smile as she shakes his hand is warm and friendly, and she is soon laughing at his story just like everyone else, Bell and Kit climbing all over her and trying unsuccessfully to braid her hair. Morris likes her instantly, her sharp wit and boisterous manner making her seem like one of the newsies themselves, despite her clean and pressed clothing and carefully maintained curls.

Sarah Jacobs, on the other hand, is a soft-looking girl with dark hair much like her brothers', a slight, tall figure next to Kath's broad shoulders and rosy, laughing face. She smiles just as warmly, though, and there is a steely glint in her eye that Morris knows is protectiveness. It's obvious in the way she speaks to the others, bends to lay a benevolent hand on a little one's head, looks around multiple times to see about everyone's well-being - if Kath is one of the boys, then Sarah is the older sister, quiet, yet strong and knowledgeable.

The girls fit into the festivities like clockwork, knowing their way around the building and its inhabitants out of experience. Kloppman calls them down for the holiday feast not long after, aptly provided for by Katherine, Medda, the Jacobs', and Kloppman himself - though Morris suspects some of the older newsies chipped in as well.

* * *

Race disappears after the feast is done, taking a sprig of mistletoe from the mantelpiece, and from the mischievous look on his face as he saunters out the door tells Davey that he's probably heading to Brooklyn. He nudges Jack, who laughs as he reads his raised eyebrow, nodding. 'He won' be back 'til morning. Happens every year.'

Davey snickers, comfortable with teasing Race after every prank the blond has pulled on him. 'Well, then, I suppose we can have fun now.'

Jack cackles with unrestrained laughter, nearly falling off his seat, and Davey finds himself going faintly red, turning away. Unfortunately, this only means he catches the eye of Crutchie, who flutters his eyelashes exaggeratedly, clasping his hands in front of his chest - before immediately going back to petting Holly as Jack recovers, just missing Davey giving his friend the stink-eye. First rule of the boarding-house: treat each other with respect, as much as possible when you live in a house full of boys with rascally temperaments.

Second rule of the boarding-house: Crutchie knows everything. Always. Don't question it.

* * *

The house is mostly quiet - Katherine and Sarah have bid the newsies goodbye and returned home, Davey and Les making their way back soon afterwards. The little ones, bellies full, have curled up in various places to sleep, and many of the older boys are also similarly napping on chairs, rugs and upstairs, content to sleep as long as they want thanks to the lack of evening distribution.

Morris pulls on his boots quietly, carefully double-knotting the laces. It's harder to slip out when the house is quiet, as the door makes an awful lot of noise, but he hasn't even made it to the door when he hears a small cough behind him, and he turns around guiltily to see Jack frowning. 'Y'know you can stay, right?'  
'I know, but... I gotta get back.'  
'Where?'  
'To...' Where is he going? Home?

When was the last time he called it that?

Not since Oscar had set him trembling with only his words, since he'd fled to the only safe place he knew, since Romeo and Jack and Specs and Davey had looked after him and Crutchie had asked gentle questions about his life and his cats and his mother. Not since he'd started wondering if he should ever go back at all.

Maybe he shouldn't.

'I...' he starts, and doesn't finish. Jack's frown changes to sympathy, stepping forward to place his hands carefully on the taller boy's shoulders. 'That's three times I've seen you with bruises, Mikey Boy. Three strikes ain't coincidence, an' I ain't one to tell you what to do, but I don' think you should go back.'  
'I.. I can' make it obvious, Jack. They'll know.' It's not a complete lie. It's just that it's not Oscar or Wiesel who'll find out once he doesn't show up for distribution, where he's almost always been for the past three years.

**_"You workin', or trespassin'? What's your pleasure?"_ **

'Hey. Hey, Mike, come back.'

Morris blinks, the memory dissolving. Jack is frowning again, searching his face. 'Where'd you go, pal?'

He shakes his head, and Jack drops the subject, though his hands don't leave their position on his shoulders. 'You take a couple days. Gather what you need, plant a bum trail if y' have to, then get outta there, okay? Wherever it is, it ain't anyplace good.'

Morris nods in agreement, and bolts out the door as soon as Jack lets him go, toward the distribution office.

Away from home.


End file.
